


Black, White, and Every Shade In Between

by MidnightRhymer



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightRhymer/pseuds/MidnightRhymer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's another year at Hogwarts. Another year of mischief and love and romance. But there's a chill in the air, a sinister plot that's been brewing over the summer, and it could very well be the death of everything good in their lives. Only one thing gives Sam hope; things can only get so dark before they start getting light again.</p>
<p>Or can they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black, White, and Every Shade In Between

Chapter One- The Return Journey

Ah, the sweet smells of the Hogwarts Express. Sherlock was well aware that those scents would turn sour come spring, when he would be forced to return to droll London, with its simplistic notions and its almost overbearing Muggle population, but it didn’t change the fact that he dearly loved Hogwarts, even if leaving it was too bitter for words. Still, he kept his face stoic and his chin high as he moved gracefully through the crowded train car.  
  
He and John always stayed in the back.  
  
He opened the door roughly, bored already by the inane babble of the pseudo-rebellious youths outside. He debated the merits of pulling on his school robes, before deciding that he wanted to show John his new jumper first. It was something the older boy would approve of, obviously; warm, fuzzy, and knitted, but it was black which suited Sherlock just fine, as opposed to the ugly patterns John usually sported. Almost as soon as he flopped down, he felt the charmed parchment in his pocket warm, usually indicating a warning from Mycroft about the “dangers” of rebellion and how he should be sure to keep that “proud, stubborn, foolish” Gryffindor streak under cover at all times, lest anyone ever think him brave.  
  
The Holmes family was proudly Pureblood, although not segregated against those of Muggle-birth. Even then, however, the elder Holmes brother was often too busy being pretentious to notice that his brother didn’t much care for even the softer Pureblood traditions, and often strayed away even during his times in the manor house on the outskirts of London. He made it his business, however, to remind Sherlock that everything he did reflected upon him, their father, and their mother, and that any toes placed out of line would be severely punished.  
  
Sherlock unfolded the paper, and revealed ink of a shade his friend called Mermaid’s Tale, a dark and muted shade of green that he preferred over most, although he would have admonished him for saying such a thing. He could practically hear him going on about how all shades of green were beautiful, and having a preference wasn’t something he was wont to do when it came to colors, so on and so forth. He pushed Rinn’s voice to the back of his mind, and read the boy’s words instead.  
  
 _Triumvirate is gathering in the front for a meeting of some kind. Have a spare set of extendables, if you’re interested? ___  
  
Sherlock took out his quill and wrote a simple reply—No, John will be here soon—in purple ink, the same color as his personal scarf. It was met with a reply in that same shade of green telling him to suit himself, and then Sherlock folded the parchment and put it away quietly before settling in to wait.  
  
John Watson was Head Boy at Hogwarts that year, a feat that Sherlock himself had not hoped to attain, although he was proud that his friend had of course. John had always been the ambitious type, whereas it suited Sherlock more to have some kind of plot or plan to circumvent some disaster or another. He never caused the disasters, not like that rowdy Dean Winchester and his brother, but he had aided Rinn Milton before in his attacks on the brothers, usually with great success.  
Rinn was somewhat of an anomaly among the Slytherins, not often to be found among the snakes themselves, but always near at hand when it was necessary. Sherlock had befriended the boy his first year, long before he met John and Lestrade, and Rinn remained one of his closest friends.  
  
Despite his earlier commentary, Rinn knew that the time Sherlock spent on the train with John was important. It was as close as he was willing to get to being openly involved with the Gryffindor, something that the older boy craved but was too leery to out and out ask for. It wasn’t surprising; Sherlock was a Holmes, John was a Gryffindor. Not much margin for error in that, and it made Sherlock nervous. He didn’t want to lose his boyfriend because of simple house lines and lineage traditions. He yearned for the day he could cut ties with his family and be with John, for everyone to see.  
  
The musing on such days led the Prefects meeting to pass by faster than normal, and Sherlock didn’t snap out until John was already drawing the shades to their compartment. The younger, taller boy reached a long, pale arm up in silence and pulled his side down lazily, in spite of the desire he felt in his veins; the need to touch, and be touched, even if John refused to go much further than heavy petting for as long as Sherlock remained fifteen.  
  
As soon as the shade was down, John lunged.  
  
It was a bruising kiss, enough passion to remind Sherlock that it had been three months since he and his boyfriend had been left alone together. John had never been to the manor as far as Sherlock’s parents knew, but Sherlock has certainly been over to John’s flat. John’s parents, although they accepted their son’s decisions with enough grace, had enough to deal with, and so Sherlock never spent the night. Instead, they settled for family-type dinners and long walks in the park, never holding hands but always close enough that their shoulders and elbows bumped.  
  
Sherlock’s head thumped against the back of the bench almost painfully, but he didn’t break the kiss. Instead, he laced his fingers through John’s hair and pulled him closer, long fingers giving a gentle tug.  
  
And then the compartment door slid open.  
  
John flew backwards away from Sherlock, but there was no hiding the bruising of the dark-haired boy’s lips, or the dark flush crawling up each one’s cheeks at the idea of having been caught on the first day, before classes even started.  
  
“Do you mind?” Sherlock snapped.  
  
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.”  
  
The color drained from John’s face as a single, tall, burly man stepped into the doorframe, a scowl on his face. It was Dean, his shirt stretched tight across well-honed muscles (Quidditch player, Beater most likely, definitely looking for someone, angry about something, but what?). If the lust for John’s touch would have left his mind, Sherlock would have recovered fast enough to shove the tall Gryffindor out into the corridor again and shut the door, locking it this time. Instead, he tried to push it away as hard as he could, and it kept threatening to swallow him whole.  
  
Further up in the train, in a well lit compartment toward the front, John Smith watched a series of black cloaks slip past the glass with a scowl on his face. Smith, known in his circle of friends as Eleven (I’m the eleventh in my family to go to Hogwarts. Eleven? I know.), didn’t often scowl. He was usually a happy man, and rarely, if ever, found himself worked into too much of a rage. But he didn’t tolerate bias well, nor hate, nor any semblance there of up to and including genocide. His older brothers had all fought in the war against Voldemort, although he had been spared such a fate simply by his age. One of the youngest to fight, Chris, was so mentally scarred by it that he’d run off into the great unknown by himself, and hadn’t come back. He’d seen what war did, and he didn’t like it much.  
  
“Looks like they’re up to something again this year.”  
  
Eleven focused his gaze across at the speaker, a younger friend of his named Amelia Pond. Amy had her knees drawn up, and her gaze was turned out the window, but it meant nothing. She knew as well as he did that, after Rinn and Sherlock had sacked half of the Silence’s plans last year, they’d been gunning for the pair. And everyone knew that, while Rinn was good, excellent even, Sherlock was… well… better. He’d always been better, he always would be better, and Rinn didn’t particularly mind. He was good at the dirty work, anyway. Great at it, in fact.  
  
“You’re worried about Rinn?” Eleven asked.  
  
“Of course I’m worried about Rinn!” Amy snapped. “He’s Rory’s-“  
  
She cut herself off as Rory, her long-term boyfriend (they were in the running for the record for cutest couple in Hogwarts history), slipped back into the car and sat down.  
  
“So I see the Triumvirate have a meeting tonight,” he remarked, passing a flask of pumpkin juice to Amy.  
  
“We were just talking about that, yes,” Eleven sighed.  
  
“I’d be willing to put good money on them being after Rinn and Sherlock this year, especially after last year’s debacle,” Amy offered.   
“Someone should warn him.”  
  
“If I know Rinn, he’s already on top of it,” Rory answered, taking the flask back.  
  
“It begs the question, though, of what they’re up to, and how they plan on getting back at them,” Eleven mused.  
  
“You could hit Rinn anywhere and it wouldn’t hurt. He’s got balls of steel. But Sherlock… hit John and Sherlock will fall like a brick,” Rory whispered.  
  
“Still not worried?” Amy asked with a smirk.  
  
Rory cleared his throat. “I’m going to find Rinn.”  
  
Sam had looked through the whole train twice, hunting for his brother in spite of the fact that they were headed to Hogwarts; their dad couldn’t possibly have him over his knee in the shed, beating him black and blue until he begged for mercy. He tried to tell himself that they were safe, but he never felt safe anymore unless he knew where Dean was, and he currently did not. So, when he heard raised voices from behind the curtains in John Watson’s compartment, he didn’t hesitate to yank the door open.  
  
Sherlock was standing straight and tall, looking Dean in the eyes easily. John was trying to get between the two of them, but wasn’t having much luck; his stature put him at a disadvantage easily, and John wasn’t one to fight often. As a result, Sam took it upon himself to hook an arm around his brother’s neck and pull him back out into the corridor. He gave Sherlock a quick, courteous nod before sliding the door shut with his other hand and throwing Dean down the corridor, toward the compartment where Cas was patiently waiting for the both of them.  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re trying to do?”  
  
“John deserves someone who he doesn’t have to sneak around to be with,” Dean barked.  
  
“And you think Sherlock wants to sneak around? He’d be much happier to walk through the train screaming that he’s dating John at the top of his lungs but he doesn’t have a choice; not until he can get out from underneath his family’s thumb,” Sam countered. “Next time think before you yell.”  
  
He shoved Dean into their compartment with an eye roll, narrowly missing Rory in the process.  
Rory kept going despite the giant that threatened to squash him. He ducked beneath the arm that swung out wildly, and continued down the corridor, following the progression of black cloaks at a distance. He knew Rinn would be close by, eager as anyone to find out what in the world the Silence was up to, especially—  
  
 _Is that… Moriarty? And Metatron?! ___  
  
A pale hand shot out of the compartment behind the Triumvirate’s usual meeting place and pulled him inside, a hand over his mouth silencing him. It was a very femininely masculine hand, which made sense when one attached it to Rinn, who, himself, was mildly feminine. Rory had never bothered to ask if he was just a feminine guy, or a guy in a girl’s body; he didn’t much care one-way or the other. Rinn was good in a fight or for one, depending on what you were up for, and that was what Rory cared about. The fact that they had become close friends over the years only aided that.  
  
“Is that Moriarty and Metatron… with the Silence?” he snapped.  
  
“Of course it is. Sherlock and I got them all last year; submitted tons of evidence about what they were doing. They’re all in the academic probation cabin this year,” Rinn replied, a laugh bubbling in his sea-green eyes.  
  
Rory had ever seen those eyes turn blue once. Rinn had enlisted Sherlock’s help, in their third year, to pull off the ultimate prank on Moriarty. What he hadn’t known was that Moriarty had been mixing the Peruvian Instant Darkness powder she had replaced with coal dust into potions in an attempt to create a stronger version, enough to black out the potion’s hall so that he could steal some of Snape’s more precious ingredients. The dust reacted violently with Moriarty’s latest potion and put the boy in the hospital wing for six weeks. Rinn had cried, insisting that she didn’t want to hurt Moriarty, because, honestly, he hadn’t.  
Most of the time, though, they hovered in the blurry area between gray and green.  
  
“So, what are they up to?” he asked.  
  
She handed him her spare set of extendable ears wordlessly, and Rory lowered it in carefully over the strategically placed hole.  
  
“They must be stopped. At all costs.”  
  
“They will be, my friends. All in good time, though.”  
  
“And what about Castiel, hmm? I need him on my side, and the only way to do that is to get him away from those blasted Winchesters.”  
  
Rory’s eyes widened at the mention of Cas, with whom he was friends, before settling for a glare at the wall.  
  
“Separating Cas from the Winchesters requires more thought than we have time for. We must focus on something that is easier accomplished.”  
  
“Getting Sherlock away from John.”  
  
Rory fought the urge to leap through the wall and strangle Moriarty. He didn’t know who it was that had told the man about John and Sherlock—he knew because Sherlock had told Cas, who told him in a desperate plea for advice that Rory didn’t know how to give—but he vowed to get his hands on them and strangle them within an inch of their life.  
  
The soft damnit that came from beside him let him know that his thoughts weren’t the only ones that ran that way.  
  
“Well, then, gentlemen. I believe this calls for more thinking than I can handle at the moment. I shall return shortly.”  
  
Rory yanked his ear back in, as did Rinn, but Rory was a greenhorn, and he couldn’t help the guilty look that crossed his face as Metatron passed them. The older Gryffindor seemed to have more on his mind than who was listening and who wasn’t, however, because he didn’t even bother to look in the compartment that was supposed to be housing just the Silence.  
  
“Get back to Amy and Eleven. I’m going to find Sherlock,” Rinn barked before bursting out into the corridor.  
Rory followed just in time to watch him overtake Metatron and bark a loud “comin’ through” before he was into the next section and out of his eyesight.  
  
Rinn didn’t slow up until he got to the last car. He spared three words for Lestrade as he passed him (come with me), and kept going until he reached the last compartment in the train. Even then, he didn’t pause to knock on the door to the compartment either. Instead, he just whipped it open, stepped inside, and turned while closing the door.  
  
“You have ten seconds to get your clothes on. If I hear an slapping noises, I’m taking pictures,” he snapped.  
  
John groaned, but he could hear the rustling of school robes being pulled on and adjusted before one long violinist’s finger touched him on the shoulder, indicating he could turn and face the pair, now arranged more appropriately on the bench. He collapsed across from them, but waited until Lestrade had caught up and collapsed with him.  
  
“Moriarty knows.”


End file.
